Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen) (8 page)

“Right. ’Cause that always goes over well.”

“Never know if you don’t try, Vic.”

He doesn’t attempt to take me home, but later that evening after he’s helped me struggle through homework, he tosses me my phone and says, “Call her.”

I stare at the cell like I’m worried it’ll grow fangs. This is not a conversation I want to have with my mother, but my curiosity is going to get the best of me, and maybe doing it on the phone is better than dealing with her possibly having a breakdown in person. My thumb traces over the screen slowly. Brett sighs, plucks the phone from my grasp, dials Mom’s number, and hands it back.

Before I can really process this, Mom’s voice on the other line says, “Hello?” My mouth immediately refuses to cooperate. Mom sighs. “Victor, hello? What is it?”

Brett jabs me in the ribs and I jerk, straightening my spine. “H-hey, uh, sorry. I wanted to l-let you know the hearing went well yesterday.”

“That’s good,” she says distantly.

“And…I j-just wanted to ask you something.”

Mom is silent.

“Um, about my dad…?”

This time Mom inhales slowly and exhales a sigh right into the mouthpiece of the phone. “You know I don’t like talking about your father.”

“Y-yeah. I know. It’s just…” I glance at Brett, who gestures for me to keep going. If I tell Mom it has something to do with everything that’s going on, she’ll never tell me anything. “We’re doing this p-project at school about our parents. Like, ancestry stuff, so…”

Mom sighs again, more irritated than wary this time. “I have some of my family tree stuff in the garage. I’ll dig it out and we can go over it.”

“And—”

“I don’t know anything about your father’s side of the family.” Her voice is short, clipped, signaling the end of the conversation. “I have some things in the oven. I need to go.”

I’ve barely said “Okay” before she hangs up, and I look to Brett helplessly.

“I’m guessing that didn’t go well?” he asks.

“The usual. She said she doesn’t know anything about him and then hung up on me.”

“Ouch.” He runs a hand over his hair. “What about your aunt? Can you ask her? Do you have her number?”

“No. B-but I can get it.” It’ll be in Mom’s phone, so all I have to do is go through it while she’s preoccupied. Which shouldn’t be difficult. My mother is a creature of habit. I know that when she gets home from work in the evenings, she’ll make herself dinner and maybe put something in the oven to bake. Then she’ll go upstairs and take a shower for the fifteen to twenty minutes her baking takes. That would probably be the best time for me to sneak in. She isn’t likely to give me Aunt Sue’s number if I ask nicely, not if she knows I’m looking for info related to my dad.

Not that I tell this plan to Brett. We’ve always been pretty open about our home lives, but I’ve spent years downplaying what happens between Mom and me. Really, it’s mostly out of embarrassment. Brett’s parents are pretty great. To me, at least. I see them lean on Brett pretty hard to be perfect at everything and remain at the top of the class, but I’m not their kid so my grades don’t matter.

Then there’s my mother, who plays Friday night bingo, bakes away her anxiety and stress, has worked at the same dead-end office job processing student loans to barely make ends meet—not because she couldn’t go elsewhere, but because she doesn’t like change—and who one day decided her son was a hassle instead of the little boy she was proud of.

The next day, Brett tells me he’ll be late at tennis practice and tosses me his car keys to go home. Awesome. I’ll wait until Mom shows up at six o’clock and hide away in my room where she isn’t likely to bother me. The next hour is a waiting game. I hear her in the kitchen, making something to eat and, eventually, she walks down the hall toward her room. At that point I leave my door ajar so I can hear when the shower water goes on.

I wait five more minutes to make sure she’s in there and inch down the hall, heart threatening to leap out of my throat. I should’ve waited until Brett was here to do this with me. At least if we got caught, he could schmooze his way out of the situation. If Mom catches me going through her phone—I don’t want to think about how that would play out.

Mom’s curtains are pulled shut, leaving her room dark save for the sliver of light escaping from her cracked bathroom door. I have no idea where she keeps her phone and for a moment, panic overtakes me. What if she keeps it in there with her?

Then I spot it on her nightstand next to her purse. Bingo. I glance once at the bathroom and then activate her touchscreen. She has two unread text messages from Ruthie Biggs. My stomach flip-flops. If I read them, will she know I was going through her phone? My thumb hovers over the notification. She can’t prove anything, and there might be answers in there about what all Mom has shared with Ruthie that Aaron might have found out. Most parents, I’m willing to bet, aren’t secretive about their phones, and if he wanted to dig up dirt about me…

Ruthie’s messages were sent two minutes ago. I go ahead and open them, figuring I don’t have a lot to lose anyway. Apparently Mom is the sort to clear out her texts regularly, so there isn’t much for me to scroll through. But what I can see implies Ruthie does know about me being a suspect. Mom texted her the other day, in fact:

dna tests came back negative
.

Nothing in response, so I’m guessing they talked directly. Following those texts are a few of little interest. Chatter about the news, the hot weather, bingo. Then—

He asked about Don today

I read over it a few times to make sure there isn’t any other way I can take that. It could be irrelevant. Even my dad’s name has never been common knowledge.

Ruthie’s responses:

What did you say?

Maybe it’s time you sat him down and told him

Told him. Told
me
. Told me what? Damn it, if I could have waited until after Mom messaged her back, I might have more information. What’s worse, why does someone not even related to us know about my dad and I don’t?

Don. My dad’s name is Don.

As I look up Aunt Sue’s number and scribble it on the back of my hand, I’m idly wondering what kind of person he is. I used to make up stories in my head. Like, what if my dad was a Secret Service agent who loved my mom but had to leave her because his work was too dangerous? What if he was a marine who died in the line of duty? I lifted my dad up on a pedestal until I was dumb enough to voice these ideas to Mom. She shot them down quickly with a disgusted look and a curt, “Your father was no hero.”

Was
, she said. So then I wondered if he had died some other way. A drug addict? Alcoholic? Did he just take off when he found out she was pregnant?

I try to place Mom’s phone back exactly as I found it before slipping silently out of her room and heading for Brett’s car. I make it back to school in record time and wait in the parking lot. Practice should be over, but Brett always lingers around and takes his time to chat with the guys, so I’d say I have another fifteen to twenty minutes. Which means I’m pulling out my phone and entering Aunt Sue’s number. The line rings four times before going to voicemail. Maybe she screens her calls; I doubt she has my number.

“Um… Hey, Aunt Sue. It’s V-Victor. I was j-just…calling to talk.” Pause. “I had a few questions I thought…you know, maybe you could answer?” I add my number, thank her, and hang up. Part of me expects to get a call from Mom, screaming at me for messing with her phone, but no such call comes. I’ve done a few sneaky things over the years, namely by saying I’m staying at Brett’s house when I’m actually going somewhere else with him. But I can honestly say I’ve never gone through my mother’s things or invaded her privacy.

I’m so engrossed in the phone that I jump when Brett knocks on the driver’s side window. I unlock the doors and scoot to the passenger’s seat while he gets in beside me. “Sorry, spacing out.”

“Clearly.” He starts the car and shoves his tennis bag into the backseat. “Did you get your aunt’s number?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t answer.”

Just as the words leave my mouth, my phone goes off. It rings so rarely that the sound startles me. Brett never calls; he always texts, so that makes the ringtone all the more alien.

“Dude, answer it,” Brett says.

I quickly swipe my thumb across the screen and bring it to my ear. “H-hello?”

“Hey, it’s your favorite auntie,” Aunt Sue chimes on the other end. Something she’s said to me before but has never made much sense. I can count on one hand the number of occasions we’ve spent time together or spoken without my mother around to be the focus of our attention. Not to mention she’s my
only
aunt.

“Hi,” I respond awkwardly, wishing Brett wasn’t here to see how dumb I am at this. “S-sorry to bother you.”

“You aren’t bothering me, honey,” she insists. I’ve never been able to tell if Aunt Sue is genuine in how sweetly she speaks to people or if it’s an act. I hated it when I was little. The older I got, the more I kind of craved it, though, since Mom grew to be so cold. “Just making dinner for the cats. They’re on an all-raw-food diet now, did your mom tell you that? Makes their coats look amazing.”

“Oh.” I forgot. Mom said Aunt Sue has a dozen cats. I wonder if she speaks to them the way she speaks to me.

“Enough of that, though. What did you want to ask me?”

I can’t do this with Brett sitting right here, staring at me. I get out of the car, shut the door, and lean back against it. “It’s sort of…p-personal. It’s about my dad.”

Aunt Sue is silent.

“M-Mom has never said anything about him, and I’m almost eighteen now and I j-just—”

“Victor, sweetheart,” Aunt Sue gently interrupts. “I’m not so sure you really want information on your father. He wasn’t a good person.”

“I th-think that’s for me to decide,” I insist. “As soon as I-I’m eighteen, I c-can look for him on my own. Mom won’t tell me anything. You k-know she won’t.” The words are becoming thick in my throat, ungainly on my tongue. I’m so tired of being kept in the dark.

But Aunt Sue isn’t swayed. She sighs, heavy but determined. “I’m really sorry, Victor, but this is a conversation your mom needs to have with you. It’s not my place.”

My jaw clenches. I close my eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, Aunt Sue.”

“Victor…” Another sigh, but she doesn’t push. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

I hang up and give myself some time to breathe and calm down. When I get back in the car, Brett only looks at me in sympathy. He had to have heard my half of the conversation through the window.

“Sorry, man.”

Shaking my head, I sink down in the seat and fixate on my reflection in the window. Every time I look at myself anymore, I see less and less of Mom and more of a stranger no one will explain to me.

Chapter Ten

Autumn is standing by my locker Friday morning. She doesn’t even wait for Brett and me to separate before approaching, which means Brett is giving me the most bizarre, confused look as she pushes away from the lockers and waves in my direction. “Vic!”

My cheeks grow warm at the thought of what ideas must be running through Brett’s head right now. “Uh, hi.”

“I really need to just get your number so we stop being late for class.” She sighs. Only then does she pause and glance at Brett, offer him a half smile, and say, “Hey.”

Brett’s eyebrows lift. “Hello.”

Autumn turns her attention back to me. “Anyway—so yesterday afternoon, I cornered Marco, right?”

Oh, God.

“First, I found out he was at that party…though he swears he didn’t see anything. And I made him elaborate on what he said to you.”

I try not to laugh at the image of broad-shouldered Marco cowering from Autumn. Not that I can blame him. “Okay.”

She talks with her hands, I realize. She gestures at nothing in particular, putting expression behind her words with nothing more than a wave of her fingers. “Right, so he said he heard it from Aaron Biggs. He’s the one who hosted the party, isn’t he?”

My stomach sinks. “Y-yeah, he is…”

“And his mother is best friends with Vic’s mom,” Brett points out. “They talk a lot.”

“Obviously
too
much.” Autumn reaches out to fix the collar of my shirt as though it’s nothing, completely oblivious to the way butterflies begin to dance in my chest. “I just thought you should know. I have to get to class. Oh—give me your hand.”

Puzzled, I extend my left hand. Autumn yanks a pen out of her back jeans pocket, takes my hand, and begins to scribble digits on the back of it. I look to Brett with widened eyes. Is Autumn seriously giving me her number? Not asking for mine in the off chance she needs me for something, but legitimately
giving me
her number? When she pulls back, she nods once and smiles.

I stare at her writing, uncertain. “What’s this for?”

“You mentioned wanting to help me find the person who hurt Callie, right? So…I’ll talk to you later.”

Then she’s scooping up her backpack and jogging down the hall to get to class just as the first bell rings. I look to Brett again, who is staring straight at me. He asks, “What the hell was that?”

I reply, “No idea. D-do I call her…?”

“Uh,
yeah
. She gave you her digits. No chick has ever done that with you.”

“Now?” I ask, realizing what a dumb question it is the second it leaves my lips. Of course not
right
now, she’s in class. But later. I have permission from Autumn to call her. To talk on the phone. Not just text or whatever, but talk. The idea is mind-boggling. Would Mr. Mason consider this some form of possible entrapment? Somehow I don’t think Autumn would be helping me against guys like Marco if she was entirely convinced I was guilty, especially if she’s saying she wants my help. Besides, there’s no restraining order, so that whole no-contact thing with Callie or her family is null and void.

Brett is unnaturally quiet while we head down the hall. Quieter still during lunch. He eats but he’s looking around as though searching for someone, and it isn’t until I notice him staring over my shoulder that I turn and realize who it is. Aaron. The one responsible for rumors about my dad being spread around, and probably the one who began informing others that I was even a suspect in Callie’s case.

I look back at Brett, whose frown has creased the middle of his brow. I know that look. It’s the same look he wore in seventh grade when kids teased me about my stuttering. The next day, those same kids found roaches in their bagged lunches. Brett was sneaky. He never let anyone bother me and get away with it, and yet his approach was always indirect, untraceable. He isn’t the type to often go after people directly. This time, though, Brett slides away from the table to take his tray and dump it. I scramble to my feet to follow after him, still cramming french fries into my mouth.

Aaron doesn’t look at us as we walk by and Brett says nothing. We slip out of the cafeteria and into the quad, heading for the parking lot. I ask, “What are we doing?” and receive silence in response.

Brett searches the cars one at a time and ducks down against a black four-door, making himself comfortable on the asphalt. I stare at him until he grabs my wrist to yank me down beside him. And we wait. For what, I don’t know. Brett keeps his eyes glued on a white Chevy truck just barely in our line of sight. I feel like I know that car, but I can’t be sure.

Eventually, we hear footsteps. I catch sight of Aaron opening the door to the truck and sliding inside. My palms are sweating. Brett smirks. “He always comes out here to sneak a cigarette after lunch. Lean against the driver’s side door, would you?” is all the explanation he gives me before he’s on his feet and heading for the truck.

I should ask questions, but Brett isn’t giving me much of a chance. Aaron’s window is cracked slightly and a subtle plume of smoke drifts from the opening. We’re approaching from behind so by the time he spots us in the rearview mirrors and starts to open his door, I’ve thrown myself against it and Brett is getting in on the passenger’s side.

“What the hell?” Aaron starts. I lean my weight into the door until it snaps fully shut, and then twist around to look as Brett grabs a fistful of Aaron’s hair and shoves him face-first against the steering wheel.

“Brett—”

Brett silences me with a look. He leans in to peer at Aaron, expression dark. “Hey, buddy. So, we’ve been hearing some unsettling rumors that seem to have originated from you. Want to explain that to me?”

Aaron tries to twist free, but Brett is crowding him in the driver’s side seat and Aaron is trying not to drop his lit cigarette on himself or the floor. “Screw you, man, let go!”

Brett takes a deep breath and for a second, I think he might let Aaron go. And he does. Sort of. His grip relaxes just enough that Aaron starts to lean back…and then Brett slams his head back to the steering wheel, making it honk abruptly. “Try again.”

“Fuck!”
He tries to clamp a hand over his face. His nose is bleeding. Oh, God, please tell me Brett didn’t break his nose. I grasp the door handle, preparing myself to wrench it open and put a stop to this before it spirals out of control, except Aaron is already blurting out, “My mom, okay?! Her room is right by mine. I hear her talking to Vic’s mom all the time!”

Although Brett’s expression doesn’t soften, he does let go and slump back in the passenger’s seat with his hands in his lap. “And what have you overheard, exactly?”

Aaron sags against his seat. Blood trickles down between his fingers. He tips his head back with a groan and I fumble in my backpack until I find a package of mini tissues that I slide in through the window. He grunts at me in appreciation and promptly shoves a Kleenex up his nostril. “Jesus, did you break my nose? Does it look broken?”

“No,” Brett replies calmly, “but I’ll make sure I do next time if you don’t start talking.”

He sighs heavily and stares up at the roof. “She told Mom about Vic getting taken in for testing by the doctors, and that he was a suspect.”

“And you thought that information was appropriate to spread around?” Brett asks coldly.

“What the hell do I care?” He slides his gaze over to me, scowling. “I’m not here to protect a rapist. They should’ve thrown his ass in jail already. Serves him right; my brother’s in deep shit because he supplied minors with alcohol but yet the rapist is running free.”

I frown. Some thanks for giving him my tissues.

Brett says, “The evidence cleared Vic because he didn’t do anything wrong. Though you’re so bent on getting him in trouble that I almost wonder if
you
have something to hide.”

At the accusation, Aaron’s face blanches. “What—? I didn’t touch her!”

“Or maybe someone you know did. You and your brother knew most of the people at that party.” Brett crosses his arms.

We’re getting off-topic. I don’t care about who Aaron wants to accuse. I pull open his door so I can ask, “Wh-what did you overhear about my d-dad?”

Aaron’s gaze slants in my direction, distaste written across his face. “I don’t know. I only heard Mom’s side of the conversation.”

“And what was that?”

“Something about your old man being in prison for something.” He rolls his shoulders into a shrug. “Which is where you’ll be headed once they pin this on you.”

“He’s a minor,” Brett says mildly. “He probably wouldn’t go to a standard prison.”

Aaron rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

I don’t care about that. I don’t care about what Aaron thinks or says, or the semantics of where I’ll go if I’m convicted. Over the last few days, I’ve thought as much about my father. Especially after what Aunt Sue said: he wasn’t a good person. Wasn’t? Isn’t? Is he still alive, still in a prison somewhere nearby? I spent my whole life thinking my dad was just some one-night fling of Mom’s, that maybe he doesn’t even know I exist. Because I didn’t want to think that he
does
know about me and has chosen to stay away, or that Mom has kept me from him. The gravity of that threatens to drop me to my ass on the ground.

I pull away from Aaron’s truck and shoulder my backpack, walking away without a word—ignoring Brett’s concerned call—to head back to school. Not because I want to deal with classes and being whispered about, but because I need to clear my head. A few hours to think.

By the time the final bell rings for the day, I couldn’t repeat a single word of what my teachers have said or what, if any, my homework is. Not that it matters. There’s no way I’ll be able to focus on it anyway. I text Brett to let him know I’m going home. Without my bike the walk takes a bit, but the silence is appreciated.

At home, I go to my room and sit on the edge of my bed. All things considered, I think I’ve missed my room. I’ve missed my dictionary Brett gave me, which is the only thing I’ve ever been smart at. I used to think if I was going to sound stupid with my stutter, I could at least fully understand every word that came out of my mouth. I’ve missed my video games and music that I would play from my computer at night to help me sleep. It would drown out the sound of Mom watching TV or the absent murmur of her voice on the phone. Mom rarely came into my room, for that matter, so this was a place I felt alone and safe and unbothered.

Maybe I’m more tired than I thought I was, because the next thing I know, the sound of the front door slamming jars me awake and the light that had been coming in through the window has dimmed to a warm orange glow as the sun goes down. I run my hands over my face, breathing in deep, and sit up.

Time for answers.

I head straight to the kitchen. This scenario is becoming all too familiar, facing off like this over the same linoleum floor where we used to bake cookies and pies together every Sunday. Mom has barely turned around before I’ve asked, “Who is my dad?”

She looks at me only briefly and sighs as though this conversation is already draining her. “We aren’t discussing this.”

“Yeah,” I say, “we are.”

Mom puts her purse on the countertop and turns to the fridge. “I don’t hide things from you to be mean, Victor. It’s my business and I choose to keep it that way.”

Without thinking, I close the distance between us, planting a hand against the fridge door and pushing it shut as she tries to open it. “It was your b-business until you told Ruthie, whose son told the whole damn school. Everyone seems to know but
me
.”

Mom pulls back as though struck. Not by my words so much as the meaning behind them…that
people know.
Whatever her secret is, people know and it’s all her fault. “What?”

“Aaron already admitted he heard it from Ruthie.” My eyes narrow. “My dad went to jail for s-something, didn’t he?”

She takes a half step away from me. The tension slides through her jaw as she clenches her teeth. “Yes…he did, around the time you were born. For fifteen years.”

Fifteen years… “So he’s out now?”

“Unless he’s been arrested again and I haven’t heard about it.” The moment I lean away from the fridge, she yanks the door open and grabs the carton of eggs. She places them on the counter and turns her back to me to dig through a cupboard. I doubt she knows what she’s making; she probably just wants something to do with her hands so she doesn’t have to put all her attention on me.

If cooking will help her relax enough to talk to me, then whatever. “What was he imprisoned for?”

She removes other ingredients. Chocolate chips, flour, baking powder. Her voice has become strained. “I don’t want to get into it.”

“His name is Don, right?” I stand my ground despite the wobble in her tone that suggests I’m about to reduce her to tears. “I c-can look it up. Mr. Mason could probably find him if he has a p-police record. So why don’t you spare us that and just
tell me
?”

Mom goes still. I see the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes in deep, once, twice, and then she turns with an egg in her hand and tears beginning to slide down her face. I will not feel guilty. I will not regret my decision to get answers that everyone but me seems to have.

“He raped me. Is that what you wanted to hear, Victor? We were dating and he raped me and I had you.”

She throws the egg at my feet. It cracks to pieces of white and yellow mush and splatters my shoes and I stare at it while the words resonate in my head.

Like father, like son.
That’s what they said. That’s what they meant.

Some part of me had to have suspected it. That simple sentence gave it away and I purposely chose to ignore it, to turn my head and pretend it was anything but the truth. I brace a hand against the counter and force myself to look at her.

I quietly ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are red, the tears gleaming on her face. She does not look at me like I’m her son. She stares at me as someone she is afraid of, someone she can’t stomach seeing. “Because you look just like him.”